into the meaning of it: Raffaelle was a painter of
humanity, and assuredly there is something the matter with humanity, a
few _dovrebbe's_, more or less, wanting in it. We have most of us heard
of original sin, and may perhaps, in our modest moments, conjecture that
we are not quite what God, or nature, would have us to be. Raffaelle
_had_ something to mend in Humanity: I should have liked to have seen
him mending a daisy!--or a pease-blossom, or a moth, or a mustard seed,
or any other of God's slightest works. If he had accomplished that, one
might have found for him more respectable employment,--to set the stars
in better order, perhaps (they seem grievously scattered as they are,
and to be of all manner of shapes and sizes,--except the ideal shape,
and the proper size); or to give us a corrected view of the ocean; that,
at least, seems a very irregular and improveable thing; the very
fishermen do not know, this day, how far it will reach, driven up before
the west wind:--perhaps Some One else does, but that is not our
business. Let us go down and stand by the beach of it,--of the great
irregular sea, and count whether the thunder of it is not out of time.
One,--two:--here comes a well-formed wave at last, trembling a little at
the top, but, on the whole, orderly. So, crash among the shingle, and up
as far as this grey pebble; now stand by and watch! Another:--Ah,
careless wave! why couldn't you have kept your crest on? it is all gone
away into spray, striking up against the cliffs there--I thought as
much--missed the mark by a couple of feet! Another:--How now, impatient
one! couldn't you have waited till your friend's reflux was done with,
instead of rolling yourself up with it in that unseemly manner? You go
for nothing. A fourth, and a goodly one at last. What think we of yonder
slow rise, and crystalline hollow, without a flaw? Steady, good wave;
not so fast; not so fast; where are you coming to?--By our architectural
word, this is too bad; two yards over the mark, and ever so much of you
in our face besides; and a wave which we had some hope of, behind there,
broken all to pieces out at sea, and laying a great white table-cloth of
foam all the way to the shore, as if the marine gods were to dine off
it! Alas, for these unhappy arrow shots of Nature; she will never hit
her mark with those unruly waves of hers, nor get one of them, into the
ideal shape, if we wait for a thousand years. Let us send for a Greek
archi